


When All is Lost (All is Found)

by The Author (Yours_The_Author)



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Azran Legacy Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frozen 2 (2019) Spoilers, Gen, Name Changes, Sad, Song Lyrics, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yours_The_Author/pseuds/The%20Author
Summary: Their last day together. He's determined to make this plan work, while also making this the best day for his little brother. The littlest Bronev seeks comfort in his older brother, and asks for a lullaby to help him sleep. The elder Bronev obliges.
Relationships: Hershel Bronev & Rachel Bronev, Hershel Bronev & Theodore Bronev, Leon Bronev/Rachel Bronev
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	When All is Lost (All is Found)

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING THIS IS LIKE REALLY SAD  
> AND ALSO HUGE AZRAN LEGACY SPOILERS PLEASE PLAY THE GAME BEFORE READING THIS  
> Huge thanks to my little sister, temporalCorvidae, for approving this for me in her usual way: running up to me and trying to punch me after she's done. Honestly, if she had given me this to read, I'd probably do the same.  
> I don't own the Professor Layton game series or the Frozen movies; I really just wanted a cute lullaby scene with the baby boys; they need the love. Sue me (please do not). Anyway, I think that's everything. Enjoy!

He was tired, so tired; but he continued his duty for the night. He gently set the pile of books down in front of the next window, stepped up onto it, and checked the lock for the third time. He had read somewhere that three was a “magic” number, and while he didn’t believe in magic, there wasn’t much else he _could_ believe in. Also, it just felt like the right number of times to check the locks on the house. The big, empty house, that was about to be even emptier.

Certain that the lock was doing its job, he stepped down from the pile of books and picked it up again, moving it carefully back into the bottom shelf of the bookcase. They were arranged alphabetically, as his nearly forgotten trips to the library had been, and he always made sure of it, even when he never pulled the books off the shelf in a way that would ruin the order.

The final stop for the night: the front door. This one was a little trickier, since the lock had been broken that fateful day. His small, useless fists curled and his eyes stung at the memory, but he quickly shook it away. No sense dwelling on the past, especially since another piece of his past was about to disappear from his life. Although…

“…”

Perhaps he should dwell on the past for just one more night.

He pushed the big chair from the sitting room in front of the door as quickly as his tiny little arms could manage, then hurried up the stairs, trying not to trip on the much-too-large dress shirt he had worn for pajamas that night. Normally, they’d sleep in their clothes; there were more important things to worry about than cleanliness. Today had been different, however.

Today, he had pulled all of his knowledge of housekeeping and proper hygiene he had learned from watching his mother and made it the priority of the day, followed, of course, by meal times. He had taken the clothes they’d been wearing for who knows how long and set them aside. Then, he spent an hour preparing the bath (the water was a bit cold, but they made do) and scrubbing himself clean, then cleaning the bathtub so he could start over when helping his brother.

If their father’s dress shirts were too big on him, it was like his brother was a waddling blanket with a head. He’d tried to make light of the situation, but it was hard to ignite laughter with such a damp spark.

Once they were clean, he spent a good portion of the day washing their clothes (which happened to be their best, since that day they had been about to head to do… something; he couldn’t remember now). He was as careful as possible with his wool sweater vest (“Remember to soak wool clothes in cold water before washing, dear, or else it will shrink”) and even read the instructions for the ironing board three times. Obviously, if the ironing board had been fully set up, he wouldn’t have been able to reach it safely, so he left it in its folded state on the floor, using some thick books to make sure it was balanced, before practicing on some of their father’s older dress shirts. After nearly burning his arm on the hot iron and accidentally wearing a hole or several into one of the shirts, he had become confident enough to iron out his and his brother’s dress shirts. He liked to indulge in the idea that he had been so careful, his mother would have been quite proud, after scolding him for trying to use the iron at the ripe old age of six.

After the clothes were dry and ironed, he scurried about the foyer of the house, sweeping the floor, cleaning the windows, and trying to make sure the doorknob didn’t look like it had been wrenched off from the outside. This was followed by sweeping the path to the street out front, trimming the hedge with a pair of sewing scissors he had pilfered from his mother’s sewing kit, and subsequently hiding behind the hedge whenever a car passed by. Luckily, that didn’t happen often, and he was soon satisfied that the house looked… well… lived in. As if someone had been doing this everyday as part of a routine of watching after the two boys.

Everything looked sharp. The house was clean, _they_ were clean, and their clothes were folded neatly on the vanity in their parent’s bedroom. There was only one thing to do, and it would take the rest of the day.

Whatever his brother wanted to do (within reason), they did it. He’d gotten down on all fours and scrambled around with him on his back, like a horse. He’d made a small fort of pillows and enacted an elaborate story about a smart and brave prince who could solve any puzzle and would soon be going on an adventure to make new friends. He’d made his favorite tea and allowed him to put as much sugar and cream in it as he’d wanted (as long as he promised to brush his teeth thoroughly before bed), and their agreed-upon favorite moment of the day: he had let his brother help him make strawberry scones, their favorite treat.

As the littler one had shaped the dough into scone shapes, the elder had warmed the butter topping and heated the oven, thinking bittersweetly of how fretful his mother would have been to see the two of them using the oven without an adult around. The scones had ended up a bit crumbly and stuck to the pan (he had forgotten his mother’s advice on buttering the pan to avoid such a fate), and they definitely weren’t as sweet as she would have made them, but his brother had stubbornly insisted they were the best things he’d ever tasted.

“How can you say that?” he had asked. “They fall apart as if they’re made of sand.”

“They’re the best,” his brother had repeated, “because _we_ made them.”

He had put another scone into his mouth so that he could say his tears were tears of delight from the taste.

But that was a few hours ago. He was now hurrying back up the stairs to find the source of quivering little breaths. There could only be one source, but he needed to know the _reason_ for the breaths. He swore silently that if anyone had come _tonight_ of all nights to hurt _his_ little brother—

He pushed open the door to his parent’s bedroom and immediately heard a solid _*thunk*_ of the door hitting something, followed by a pained, high pitched cry. He squeezed into the room and shut the door as he hurried to comfort his quivering little brother.

He pulled him into a tight hug and whispered comforting things to him as he gently smoothed the bump on the three-year-old’s forehead. After a few minutes of this, his little brother had calmed down enough that he could be led back to the makeshift step stool and helped back onto their parent’s big bed.

He pulled himself up soon afterwards and helped his brother get under the covers. “Why were you out of bed?” He asked. “You need to go to sleep…” _For tomorrow,_ his words implied.

His brother cuddled into his side. “I’m scared,” he whimpered, “I don’t want to go away.”

“…I know,” he replied after a moment. “But it’s for the best, Hershel.”

His little brother, Hershel, stilled at the name. It was still a little weird, but he had made sure to get that information through to his brother: _he_ was Hershel, now. Hershel hadn’t quite understood, but he had understood that this was important. Still, it was hard to let go of what he knew; he often slipped and called his older brother by his previous name. After an hour or so of struggling, they had reached a compromise. “Brother?”

“Yes, Hershel?”

“Would you… um, please… sing a song to help me sleep?”

He sighed heavily and gently smacked the back of his head into the pillow they were using. “Hershel, you know I don’t like to sing—”

“J-just one! Please, brother?”

“I don’t even remember any songs,” he replied sharply. This was true, for the most part. He had pushed memories of nursery rhyme lyrics out of his mind; there were more important things to think about now.

Well…

Except for one.

It was quiet for a moment, and he thought perhaps that Hershel had fallen asleep on his own… until he heard those quiet, quivering little breaths. He sighed again. “Well… I remember _one_ song—”

“Sing it for me?”

“I-it won’t sound very good—”

“It’s the one I want to hear.”

He breathed a laugh. Even at a meager three years old, Hershel had a stubborn determination that would probably get him into trouble… and, hopefully, _out_ of trouble. “…Alright.” He pushed himself up a bit to lean back against the pillow and shifted Hershel so that he was lying against his side. “Cuddle close,” he instructed, “scooch in.” Hershel’s happy gasp of recognition filled him with a calm protectiveness. Perhaps this was how their mother felt when she sang this song for them. She had been so excited when she had finished translating it that she had rushed them off to bed to sing it to them. It had been their favorite.

He wrapped an arm around Hershel’s head and gently brushed his fingers through his fluffy brown hair. He took a few breaths, trying to estimate how to push air through his mouth to make the song sound perfect for his brother. Then, he began:

“ _Where the north wind meets the sea, there’s a river,”_ he reached his other arm across and gently tapped his brother’s nose, “ _full of memory. Sleep, my darlings, safe and sound; for in this river, all is found.”_

Hershel pressed his face into his brother’s chest and smiled sleepily at him. His small, dark eyes were tranquil, not full of fear and worry as they had been for the past… how long had it been? He shook away the thought and drank in the sight of his little brother’s eyes, so full of peace.

_“In her waters, deep and true, lie the answers and a path for you. Dive down deep into her sound…”_ he slowly turned himself so that he had both arms wrapped around his brother’s tiny body and hugged him close. _“…but not too far, or you’ll be drowned.”_

Hershel’s eyes were half-closed, and he sleepily put a hand to his older brother’s cheek. _“Yes, she will sing to those who hear, and in her song, all magic flows. But can you brave what you most fear? Can you face what the river knows?”_

He was growing tired himself, eyes half-opened and blending the dark colors of the room together in a starry mess. He watched shapes form from the stars: a puzzle piece, a strawberry scone, the faces of his family. _“Where the north wind meets the sea, there’s a mother full of memory.”_ He looked down at his sleeping little brother. _“Come, my darlings, homeward-bound. When all is lost...”_ His eyes slid shut. _“…then all is found.”_

**Author's Note:**

> A little thing to note: I vaguely suggest this in the story, but the song used, "All is Found" from Frozen 2, is a song Rachel Bronev translated from another language, but what I don't mention (because the protagonist wouldn't know this until he does research at a later, unseen date) is that the song (in this story, not in reality) is an Azran lullaby about The Golden Garden/The Garden of Healing. According to the wiki, there's a river that leads to a lake in the garden, so that's what I'm going with.  
> Another thing: the older Bronev brother had corresponded with the Laytons for a while (for a week or so via letters, I imagine) and formulated his plan to have them adopt his younger brother around the planned date of their arrival to pick up Hershel. He also knew that no one else knew the two of them were alone in the house, and the attack from Targent made him want to keep it that way. After the little brother goes home with his new family, the older Bronev would probably pack up and leave the house to find a place in the world, namely to research the Azran, which destroyed his family, and the rest is history... history that we admittedly don't know much about, but history nonetheless.  
> *Grasps heart* My sons... sweet, clever little boys... why must these things happen? Also Descole you absolute bread man go visit your brother during the holidays or something.  
> Leave a comment and tell me what you thought of this! I'll see you around. Until then!


End file.
